


Sunshine

by Astrifer



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 16:35:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2355188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrifer/pseuds/Astrifer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I think,” that’s Ian’s voice, “You need to appreciate the opportunity you have here. I mean—hey, don’t laugh at me. Think of it like having your own genie in a bottle, you know?”</i><br/> </p><p>or, sixteen year old mickey milkovich wakes up in an unfamiliar house</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunshine

**2009\. CHICAGO, IL**

Mickey’s setting up shop, so to speak. There’s a myriad of pills to pop for every junkie’s poison of choice splayed out before him, _aim to please_ and shit.

Dealing’s what he does for chump change, collecting is more work than supplying. South Side bound any crack head will have no issue purchasing from the typical hood rat but when it’s time to collect suddenly everyone’s 50 days clean and their families are in a crisis—as if everyone ‘round these streets isn’t six feet under the poverty line.

Mickey’s hands, bruised and battered an icky blue from his last run-in with that dude who looks like Woody Allen but ghetto, are now rolling up a blunt. It’s been a rough day; he’s gotten the rough end of the stick all week (which isn’t exactly unconventional) so he deserves a treat.

“Yo, if you’re hitting the J get the good bong out and split the green before it goes dead. You never do that shit right,” Says Iggy, voice all gravelly. Mickey narrows his eyes at him suspiciously, knows he’s already lit one up.

No fucking peace.

“Get your own fuckin’ dope, jackass. Fuck that _sharing is caring_ shit,” He retorts, feeling all fused up like a live wire.

Iggy grumbles but complies, gets off his back.

As a pseudo ‘business man’ Mickey is attentive and talented at his trade. He’s precise and doing something he’s actually good at makes it easier to be somewhat relaxed, an attribute rarely present within the Milkovich house.

Swallowing, he glances up over to where Terry’s sprawled out luxuriously on the sofa, beer in one hand, cigarette fiddled within the other.

Mickey exhales, forces it out of himself. “’Ay pops?”

There’s a huffed out breath of laughter as Terry’s eyes remained glued to the television, not paying any heed to his son. Mickey’s mouth twitches, preparing for the inevitable but he steels himself and tries again.

“Dad?”

The roll of each syllable is grating and makes his bones all lock together, “Fuck’s going on?” Terry growls, feral dog biting into skin and tearing flesh with it.

Suddenly Mickey’s stomach feels empty and he wishes he’d taken another hit from the spliff before starting this conversation. Dad’s on edge today, like every other day.

He coughs, mans up. “You think I could take a break from selling shit downtown?” Terry shifts, and turns to look him dead in the eye.

Mickey begins to speak quickly.

“Iggy or Joey could do it instead, I’ll come pull the heists with you. I haven’t fired a loaded gun for a shit-load. It’d settle the score and shit, like—” What Mickey really means is that he’s not profiting enough just yet and can’t buy disinfectant for his knuckles that are seriously beginning to burn like a bitch, especially with the lash of winter constantly digging into the sensitive wounds.

He just wants a break, that’s all.

Terry gets up and that’s how Mickey knows he should have waited, should have made the proposition while his father was too drunk to see. None of them ever bother to indulge the illogicalness of their father’s reactions, they’re all targets to it and one wrong syllable leaves them open in the fire-range. His father marches over, bulky body thundering against the ground as he moves, to where Mickey’s sitting; he bends down to the cabinet where the Milkovich’s store all their weaponry and retrieves the brass knuckles reserved for special occasions. It’s always a special occasion with Mickey.

Mickey’s heart is just about to lurch out of his chest. The _fuck, fuck, fuck_ in his head dancing to the beat of each _tha-thunk-tha-thunk-tha-thunk_ of his heart beat.

He’s out.

“Get the fuck back here, you pussy!”

See, now would be a good time for Iggy to intervene, not when he’s in ‘dire’ need of a hit. Mickey scrambles out of his spot, pussying out, running toward his room like location will make a fucking difference to the impact of the blow. It’s not like they have locks on their doors.

He gets into his four by six bedroom, slams the door shut with quaking hands just in time to hear the roar of his father’s bellowing, “You little fucking cunt!”

Mickey’s shaking; an overwhelming nausea fills within his gut and blinds him. Terry’s just got the door opened an inch and the desire to cry burns into his eyes; he just wanted time for his knuckles to heal.

It feels like he’s falling, falling, falling and then fading. Fuck vertigo, he thinks before he blacks out.

**

****2019.** L.A**

Ian’s got Mickey pressed down into the sofa, nuzzling into his crotch and mouthing at the denim clad erection there.

“You like that?” He whispers, tilting his cheek against Mickey’s thigh and palming him teasingly.

Mickey’s razor sharp brow cocks, and he spreads his legs, letting out a breathy little sound. “You want more, don’t you?” Ian squeezes and feels the heat under his fingers, feels the way Mickey’s dick twitches.

“Fuck yes,” He chokes out, rolling his hips into it.

Ian ducks down and traces his teeth over Mickey’s fly, doing this filthy thing with his mouth where he gets the zip down with a flick of tongue and teeth.

Mickey’s close to rutting forward and tangles a hand into Ian’s grown out hair to tug and tell him to hurry the fuck up.

It’s been a while that they’ve gotten to do this outside of the bedroom, in the middle of the day and something about it feels forbidden. They both get off on that, the rush of adrenaline, they have nothing to be fearful of anymore (except mortgages and air-con bills) but this pretend blast of anxiousness is enough to get them going.

When Ian finally gets his mouth wrapped around Mickey’s dick and begins sucking lightly at the head, he lets out this choked sound. “Love your pretty mouth on my cock,” He whispers, watching as Ian pulls back with a lecherous look in his eye before pushing the length of his tongue out and letting Mickey’s dick slap against it.

He means to laugh but instead moans, voice caught and shivering.

Ian pushes up from his knees and drags blunt fingernails up Mickey’s sides, making his skin burn. “Love it when you fuck my pretty mouth with your cock,” Ian returns, delayed as always and lips bruising against Mickey’s. They kiss sloppily, dirty; tongue slipping in against one another, making it difficult to think or breathe, hot puffing of breath falling into the mixture and Mickey’s dick hard and attentive against his stomach.

When they break apart, Mickey’s gone for it. The foreplay’s been fun but all good things must come to an end, Ian seems to have the same sort of idea if the way he’s steadying a hand against Mickey’s hip and gripping at his cock; stroking it as a promise before unzipping his own jeans is any indication.

Tipping his head back and bearing the cords of his throat, Mickey groans, an ocean rumble against his skin. He expects Ian to suck marks into his neck; he expects a flick of tongue and a scrape of teeth that’ll make his cock jump with desire.

What he doesn’t expect is to hear a throaty but stunned, “Jesus! What the fuck?”

**

The Gods of hallucinogens have quite obviously fucked Mickey over and a half. Somehow, he’s managed to buzz out of gear somewhere from dad’s iron fist and blown straight into some North Sider’s pad.

A blood-freezing thought occurs to him that maybe he’s been set up, drugged out and put smack bang in the middle of a crime-scene to boot, forced to claim the blame and wear it like a medal. It’s not Terry’s usual jibe but Mickey wouldn’t put it past him.

Swallowing his pride, Mickey gets up from the mattress he’s sat on and creeps toward the door. He can hear whispers, due to this, he feels around his pockets for any form of weaponry but finds that not only does he have nothing in his pockets, but is completely stark fucking naked.

“Shit,” he hisses.

There’s a wardrobe to his left, and Mickey figures if he’s going down he at least wants to be wearing something even if it’s pink lingerie or whatever the fuck.

The wardrobe is unsurprisingly filled with men’s attire; he snags a t-shirt (everything’s short sleeved) and a pair of jeans that are too big all around and sort of float around his thighs and swim against his ankles.

Bare-foot, Mickey pads past the door, squinting as he goes. He’ll never admit it but in these situations, where he’s out of his element and without any form of aid, Mickey begins to think the worst. He’s brave though, has seen and dealt enough shit in his sixteen years that he knows how to sport a poker-face.

None of it, none of the run-ins, the brawls with dad, the lashings and street fights that leave him scarred but valiant and blood-thirsty, none of it prepares him for what he sees.

Mickey’s just stepped past the threshold of the door and has trekked down the slim corridor, heart in his throat only to get to where the corridor juts out and metamorphosis’ into a living-room. There, on the sofa, are two men going at it like porn-stars. Not that Mickey Milkovich has ever seen gay porn, shut the actual motherfuck _up_.

Mickey’s pretty sure his pupil’s didn’t even blow the fuck up this wide that time he dropped acid.

He should move, bolt the hell out of here and just plain up and _leave_. Yet the dryness in his throat and the steady tenting of his jeans; a combination of ‘curiosity killed the cat’ with raging teen angst and hormones getting the best of him. Swallowing, Mickey shifts his angle a little, tells himself it’s just because he wants to know where the everloving fuck he is—that’s _all_.

A latent heat blotches against his collar, makes his stomach churn with shame and in equal parts desire because fuck it’s hot, watching these two strangers getting it is really turning Mickey on.

The redhead, in between the legs of the guy whose face he can’t see, leans up, pulling off the other dude’s cock and they begin to make out.

Mickey feels like he’s intruding, which he is—breaking and entering, and all that jazz. However, the sensation building within him is one of a far more intimate intrusion; this is private, sentimental and so sickly sweet he thinks he’s going to barf rainbows. It leaves the bitter-sweet tang of an atomic berry blast Popsicle against his tongue and teeth, he hates that flavour.

Evidentially the scene before him is so hot that all sense of propriety is lost on Mickey, because he’s so busy watching the two strangers (and why does the hot one with the Strawberry Shortcake hair look somewhat familiar?) go at it that he doesn’t even realize the moment that they break apart and the man who had been on his knees notices him.

Green eyes blink through the sunlight that’s filtering in through the windows and Mickey is rooted in place, gawking with his jaw wrenched open, suddenly tensing.

“Jesus! What the fuck?” Hollers the redhead.

“Fuck,” bites out Mickey before he’s nonsensically rampaging the fuck out of there. It’s a dumbshit move because he goes back the way he came, to the bedroom, where there’s no place to hide except under the bed and Mickey ain’t all of _five_.

Mickey’s panicking, he paces for a minute before trying to break one of the windows beside the bed but his bony elbow isn’t working for shit. There’s rustling and the sound of rapid footfalls approaching, shit, he’s going to be put in the doghouse—and, the thought had always been something imminent to him, that’s where all Milkovich’s end up but he’d have liked to have avoided it just a little longer or at least been aware as to what he’d done to deserve juvi.

“I’m telling you, I know what I saw!”

“Fuck that, you’re flaking out on me, pal. Tell you what, there’s nothing cute about cutting shit short because you’re wigging ou—”

The banter between the two men is promptly cut short when the door is wrenched open and they stand there, blinking, dumbfounded at Mickey, who’s trying to meld into the stupid off-white shade of the wall.

“Holy fucking shit.” Says the redhead again, wide eyed. Then, “Is that—?” He swallows the rest of it.

The other guy, dark haired and strangely memorable, looks speculative for a moment. He gives Mickey a once over before staring him down. Mickey, who’s frantically flitting his gaze between the two of them but then pinpoints his vision on the dark haired one, who’s still flushed from the hummer he’d been on the receiving end of before Mickey had interrupted.

Squaring his jaw, Mickey puffs his chest out a little and tries to look like he’s tough shit, tries to intimidate the pair of queen’s before him. It doesn’t seem to work out since the dark haired one has no qualms with stepping forward, ready to box himself up and into Mickey’s space, trap him like a rat.

Just after he’s taken the first step, the taller guy places a hand against the dark haired one’s chest; halting him and Mickey thinks he sees the shorter man ease up.

For a minute, it looks like the redhead is trying to stave off conniptions while the older man with black hair continues in his fuming stare down.

“Get in any closer and I’ll fuckin’ tear the heads off you two fags, easy as shit!” Mickey barks, trying for confident but there’s a slight waver to it, like he’s unsure. He doesn’t even have a blade on him.

The dark haired one snorts, bitter with sarcastic laughter, “You’re not even armed, wise guy.”

“You wanna fuckin’ bet! I’ll shank you both in one go,” he spits it out, snarling the way he’s heard his father do it.

Then, the redhead moves forward a step and gives Mickey an uneasy smile, “Hey— Uh, Mick... _Mickey_. You’re Mickey, right?”

Mickey looks between the two of them, this pretty faced redhead with a cautious, eggshell walking tone of voice and the other one—well, Mickey, just sneers at the other guy.

Eventually, he grumbles out through gritted teeth, “Who the fuck’s askin’?”  Like the answer isn’t manifested before his very eyes.

The redhead smiles, his voice sedate and eyes liquid soft. It makes Mickey’s skin itch, “I’m Ian. Um...” He glances hesitantly at the man beside him, like he’s not sure what more to do now he’s introduced himself.

The dark haired fucker that Mickey’s eyeing doesn’t seem to give him any pointers so Ian heaves out a breath, “Do you, Mickey, do you have any idea how you—Uh, got here?”

The older man beside him snorts, “I’m thinking those mushrooms you made last night were a bit off—” Ian elbows him in the ribs, cutting him short.

Mickey’s crouched, defensive pose and eyes narrowed precariously. Whatever this is, it’s giving him erratic heart palpitations. Mickey’s scammed enough people to know when he’s in deep with the sharks, “Listen, you fuckers. If Terry’s organized this shit, I don’t give a motherfuck. Send me to the country club, see how you’ll like it when I’m out and come after you both with a AR70/90!”

The two men before him blink.

He feels like a caged animal, anxious and ready to go berserk. “Tell me where I am!” He finally relents because despite the fact he’s not supposed to show weakness in these situations Mickey’s just woken up stark naked, in a stranger’s home without any clue how he arrived—not to mention the fact that winter miraculously turned into summer.

Ian hesitates, looks to the man beside him again who's still watching Mickey with this look that Terry gets right before he wrings his neck. “Mickey,” He says to the man and Mickey’s brows furrow.

Ian then changes course, looks at Mickey again and smiles. “Mickey,” he repeats. “This is going to sound really strange... But,” He narrows his eyes and takes a step forward, looking Mickey over and stopping at his knuckles.

“This isn’t a fucking Hitchcock movie! Drop the suspense,” Mickey wheezes, throwing his arms about and rolling his fists up.

Ian shakes his head, seemingly breaking free of his reverie and nodding. “Uhm, I think... Well, it looks like you might have—God, this is fucked up. Mickey, I think you’ve time travelled.”

Mickey takes a look between the two older men before him and lifts a brow, swiping his thumb over his lower lip. He’s silent and so are they, there’s not a pin-drop to be heard.

Then Mickey breaks out with hoarse laughter, “You’re fucking with me, right? Time travel, what are you, Marty McFly?”

The man beside Ian’s lips twitch into something akin to a smile, but it’s erased as quickly as it came.

Ian shrugs, “I’d say you’re Marty in this scenario. Do you know what year it is— like, for you?”

This is becoming increasingly weird as fuck. Mickey’s around five hundred percent done with it, if this was planned by one of his cousins then they really should’ve tried harder because the further it goes, the less intimidated he becomes.

Mickey rolls his eyes derisively but decides to humour the stranger, “2009. Year of the ox, bitch.”

Ian laughs, the sides of his eyes crinkling. He looks like the sunlight drenching his face. It makes Mickey scowl; ignore the clench in his stomach.

“Well, you’re a long way away from home. Although—”

The guy beside him shakes his head and mutters, “Don’t.” It’s a warning Mickey that doesn’t understand.

Ian nods, in on the private precautionary. “It’s 2019 for us, and uh,” Ian gives this very blatant look between Mickey and the man beside him. Ian repeats the motion a few times in quick succession before finally Mickey’s eyes begin to examine the man before him, their eyes the same colour but his skin much cleaner. He’s no longer hard, Mickey snorts, and just looks at his face, it’s not exactly familiar just... Sometimes Mickey steals a magazine from Mandy and so that’s how he knows that it’s déjà vu that he’s feeling.

Then, Mickey’s eyes land on the man’s hands. His knuckles aren’t bruised like Mickey’s are but they have the exact knuckle tats which Mickey got inked late last year.

For the first time, he actually indulges the possibility which is mind reeling. Spluttering, Mickey chokes out, “What the fuck?!”

Ian tries to step forward and give him a soothing rub on the bicep but Mickey shoves him off aggressively which doesn’t seem to surprise the man, “Look, I know this must be...” He elects his words with care, “ _Overwhelming_ , but Mickey, this is Mick who... I suppose it’s safe to say is you in, um... 2009, did you say? So, you in like ten years.”

Tongue swiping over his lower lip, Mickey shakes his head, “Bullshit.”

Ian nods, “Yeah, this is really weird. Look, let’s just... Relax a bit, okay? We’re not going to go full out Cold War on you and it’s as fucked for us as it is for you. So... How about we just take a seat in the living room?”

Mickey scoffs, “How ‘bout you two just get back to your queer shit while I let you both off easy.”

This time the older man, ‘Mick’ laughs, easy but scathing. “Listen up, short-stack. 2009, huh? Sounds rough as fuck, you’re still playing the little bitch role, yeah? Ease up and listen to Ian because you’re not fooling anyone with your alpha dog _bullshit_.”

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Mickey growls, shoving his shoulders back and stomping forward a step.

Mick’s glowering at him and despite the fact that Mickey’s trying boldly to remain stone-faced and seething the way the man, who is apparently himself, looks at him makes him feel riddled with embarrassment and shame.

Mick raises a brow that translates into ‘don’t fuckin’ test me’. Mickey tells himself that it’s pure instinct that makes him roll his eyes and say, “Whatever.” He’s not afraid; he’s just letting them off easy.

Ian grits something out at older Mick as he guides Mickey out from their bedroom.

They end up sitting down, Mickey with his feet on the coffee table and sipping happily at a Vanilla milkshake Ian made for him and feeling something close to smug when Ian sits down beside him and not Mick.

“Right, so.”  Ian begins, clapping his hands together. He sounds like a lame-ass teacher commencing a class, “Has this ever happened to you before?”

Mickey slurps at his milkshake, “Had a milkshake as wicked as this one? Nah.” He says haughtily, still throaty with irritation but Ian laughs like he thinks it’s completely endearing.

The way he smiles, so soft and open it makes Mickey pliant and triggers the ASMR he’s got. “You know what I mean,” Ian chides teasingly, poking a finger against Mickey’s skinny side.

Mickey chances a glance up and over to Mick who’s sat on the armchair and looking disapprovingly over at them both. It makes Mickey want to flirt with Ian or, just do anything to get the guy’s attention back.

“Nope. First time dealing the temporal displacement.” Mickey replies in a monotone.

Ian shifts his eyes over to Mick who smirks, “Looks like someone watched The Final Countdown.”

Mickey huffs, because he’s right fucking _there!_ Plus, it’s a good movie, fuck everyone older Mick especially.

Ian absently rests a hand against Mickey’s shoulder, squeezes lightly and immediately Mickey feels the skin warm and heat treads up along his neck. “I get that like; maybe you’re confused about... Stuff.” Ian looks at him pointedly, green irises popping and Mickey immediately thinks to how he’d watched himself—older, with his legs spread getting sucked off by the man beside him.

He swallows, this is one messed up dream. Even in his dreams though, he’s reticent to admit it, doesn’t even want to think about it, or what the possibility might mean. It’s too dangerous and much too terrifying to humor.

Mickey shifts away, glances down at his ruddy knees covered in the jeans he nicked.

With the hand Ian’s got on his shoulder, he rubs his thumb along the seam of his shoulder blade. “It’s okay. You don’t need to feel bad about wanting to talk about it, I mean, what you saw must’ve been pretty—”

Mick coughs, “Perv.”

Ian shoots him a look then turns back to smiling at Mickey, so much smaller and ratty faced; pointy jawed and squinty eyed, unlike the older version of him who is all clean-cut and fresh-faced. He’s showered and probably smells of sunshine and rainbows.

“So, if you want to talk about it you can. Really, it’s fine to, you know, to be ga—”

It’s too much and in a fit of rage, Mickey slams the glass he’d been sipping at his milkshake from to the floor. It doesn’t smash because there’s carpet; it’s just really fucking unimpressive if anything. More fuel to the flames of his embarrassment.

“I’m _not_.” Mickey snaps, jutting up his jaw defiantly.

Except he is, he’s just watched himself in ten years getting his dick sucked and it doesn’t get much more rosy than that. Still, he can’t admit it, even in front of himself.

“It’s okay,” says Ian, his voice all sugary. Mickey feels all fizzy like a soda pop.

Really, the way Ian brushes his fingers against Mickey’s shoulder is really getting his ASMR blowing off the charts. It’s at that moment that Mickey realizes this man must know him well and he’s exploiting his knowledge of Mickey and using it against him, soothing him without his will.

Narrowing his eyes, Mickey rolls his shoulder, knocking Ian’s hand away. He swallows the spittle that’s collected in his mouth and running his tongue over tar stained teeth, “You two... Are like? What’s that?” He grumbles eloquently.

Mick for his part remains quiet, watching the interaction from the other side of the room; feet now kicked over the side of the arm of his chair.

Ian looks at him but Mickey doesn’t watch to see what paints itself over older-him’s features.

“Are you asking whether we’re together, Mickey?” Ian asks, voice calm and quiet, it’s almost like he’s welcoming the forbidden question.

Mickey shrugs.

Letting out a contemplative hum, Ian rubs his hands together. “D’you think we’re allowed to say? I mean, in those time travel movies, people are always saying that messes with the order of time and stuff... Right? I mean, you’re obviously the expert here,” He grins cheekily at Mick who just rolls his eyes.

“Man, I’d say the order of time’s fucked as is.” Mick says flatly.

Mickey’s teeth are beginning to ache and he slumps in his spot, feeling like a child sitting between these two people whose lives are completely alien to him.

“Alright,” Ian muses, seeming to draw his conclusion. “Yeah, we are.” He tells Mickey, going all starry-eyed and smitten.

Mickey wants to puke all over that dopey look on his face or deck it right off.

“You can ask whatever else you like, it’s cool.” Ian says, smiling through the words.

“Why’s it summer?” Mickey barks, feeling the heat stain onto his skin like fever.

Ian lifts a brow, confused for just a moment before understanding settles in and he lets out a breathy noise of laughter.

“I told you that you’re a long way away from home. We’re not in Chicago,” says Ian.

Like he didn’t know that, even in the windy city, when it’s summertime the air doesn’t feel like this. It usually gets stale and sultry not easy and breezy.

Mickey sighs, can’t believe how many prompts this guy requires, “No shit. Where are we?”

“L.A.” Ian replies simply before getting up, and standing up to retrieve the glass Mickey had thrown in his tantrum. He disappears for a moment, winding around the corner which leads to the kitchen.

The two Mickey’s look at one another, unsure of themselves—literally and figuratively. Eventually, older Mick sneers and Mickey swallows, self-consciously but ends up glaring down at his tattered hands to pull up his defences.

Mick’s just beginning a sentence when Ian waltzes into the living room, chipper as anything. “Uhm, Mick,” both Mickey’s look up at him mirroring the same expectant yet borderline pissed off look.

Ian recoils, “Woah, weird. Uhm, _older_ Mick.”

Mickey looks down.

“You need to... Like, you know... Pick up, that, uh, thing. The... Package, thing. From... It’s activity, place.”

That has Mickey looking up, squinting at the man who sounds suspect as fuck. He elevates a brow, at Ian who flushes, and nods at Mickey. The duo look like they’re having a silent conversation, words written in their eyes that Mickey can’t decipher.

“Yeah, on it.” Older Mickey grumbles.

He flicks his wrist, checks his watch and sighs. “I’ma probably take a bit... Gotta take the package to the park,” Mickey shrugs as Ian’s eyes widen.

“Behave,” Ian warns. The sternness in his voice causes Mickey’s throat to grow thick—something else anatomical growing thick too. He blinks furiously at the carpet.

There’s some more talk, Ian and older Mick tread down to the hallway and chatter quietly, obviously keeping it down for Mickey’s sake. Eventually though, there’s the sound of the door shutting firmly before Ian reappears, broad smile on his face.

“Hey, sorry about that! Mickey, uh, older Mickey had to go take care of something. A bit rude of him, but he’ll be back soon and.... Well, I guess we don’t exactly know how long you’re going to be here for. But, if you like, you and I can go do something while he’s gone? If you’re up for it?”

Honestly, Mickey would like nothing more than to sleep because after the day (days?) he’s had, fatigue is slow burning through him but now, hitting like a freight train.

Ian doesn’t seem to realize the droopiness of the teenager’s lashes and just grins at him, “C’mon, let’s go for a ride.” The man speaks with this kind of enthusiasm which usually makes Mickey queasy but something but the way Ian’s so unbound, it just fills Mickey with inhibitions rather than wrath.

They do end up going for a drive. Mickey feels uncomfortable in the car, shifting around and twisting in his seat. He watches the world past before his eyes, the streets paved and clean, unlike the frostbitten and trash infected roads at home. The houses and shops pristine to the extent that it’s near ostentatious. He knew the place Ian and Mick were staying in was pretty high class for Mickey’s standards but their surroundings; it’s what he’s always envisioned Beverly Hills to be like.

They’re at a traffic light when Ian turns to him sympathetically, “I get this must be so scary—even for a tough kid like you,” He winks at Mickey, causing him to huff and turn his cheek to hide the blush tinting his cheeks.

“No, really. I mean, this is really weird and I’m sorry Mickey took off just like that, but you can trust me and—Oh!” A car behind them begins to honk, the driver a blond woman probably on her way to yoga or pilates, whatever upper middle class white mom shit people in Los Angeles are into something. Mickey flips her off and pulls a face.

Ian nudges him with his elbow, “Oh god, I think I know her. Nice one,” he’s laughing as he says it so Mickey counts it as a win.

They drive for a while, circling the streets, the traffic light. “Uh,” Mickey begins anxiously, licking his lips. “How long you... Been with,” he begins to say me, but then swallows and reiterates, “Mick.”

Ian wrinkles his nose, eyes on the road. “Uhm,” he turns to Mickey, sheepish smile on his lips. “Just reaching onto... Well, close to... Nine, ten years? I guess, it’s about five officially.”

 _Nine or ten, five officially_.

Mickey’s tatted knuckles go bone white where he’s gripping at the seat. “What the fuck,” he breathes. That would mean... It would mean he’s already met—no, just about to meet Ian.

Ian shakes his head, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to like... Wait, let me just pull over.”

While Mickey’s in the middle of something close to an existential crisis, Ian begins to ease the car into an assigned spot before a smattering of shops, all of them with designer names.

Once they’re parked, Ian shifts in his seat and clasps Mickey’s shoulder, involuntarily; Mickey flinches; completely unused to anyone touching him in any other form than violence. It takes a moment for him to steel a breath and quit squeezing his eyes shut to realize that Ian’s hand is feather light against him and gentle.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you that. I guess we’re both amateurs at the time travel stuff, I’ll be more careful next time. Okay?”

Mickey stares at him, tries to work out what’s his game plan. While he watches Ian, green eyes lit up with sincerity, he finds himself swimming in dubiety because he’s just so genuine, and finally Mickey’s shoulders plummet before he’s nodding and mumbling, “Okay.”

It’s just a lot to swallow, the fact that’s he’s been with this dude for all that time—almost the same amount of time that Mickey’s been _alive_. He nervously flits between looking at his thighs to Ian who’s eased up and looking out at the ocean before them.

Ian tells him to hop out, so Mickey does. They take a short walk down the boulevard before crossing to the sidewalk and getting themselves seated on the crest of stone right before the mouth of the beach, a spread of sun-kissed people in their bikini bottoms.

Mickey doesn’t look at the pretty girls and their glazed skin, nor does he spare much of a glance in the direction of the men and their built bodies. Instead he watches Ian and wonders how, in a place like the South Side he managed to score something like _that_.

Ian catches him staring and smirks, making Mickey’s brows furrow and sulk. “Real similar to South Side summer, huh?” He teases, and Mickey just shrugs.

It is different; everything about this place feels so much more _free_ , something about the fragrance of the air or the company.

“Mick,” Ian says, and Mickey wonders if Ian meant to call him that, but he doesn’t correct himself, “I know you said this hadn’t ever happened to you before, but do you think there’s a reason why it’s happened now?” He asks inquisitively not judgemental or prying just curious.

“How the fuck should I know? One minute I’m about to get a faceful of metal and the next minute I’m butt naked in your bed. I don’t know jack about this.” Mickey grunts it out but he knows the execution falls with more vulnerability than intended. He wants to slug himself.

“What do you mean? A faceful of metal?” Ian’s looking at him, square in the eye and there’s something so foreign in the way he looks at Mickey, he nearly squirms—its _concern_.

Mickey rolls his eyes, trying to pass it off as indifference, “It’s whatever. Just dad’s usual antics, I’m not a fucking kid.”

“No one said you were,” Ian replies delicately.

They both know he is just that, but both can play pretend for a while longer.

“You know it doesn’t have to be like that forever. I mean... It’s going to get better, I promise.” Ian’s voice is a whisper in the wind and Mickey shivers against the breeze of it.

“Like I give a shit,” he murmurs no bite to it.

Ian begins to talk to him about the sea and how much he loves it,  all sorts of stupid shit that nearly makes Mickey fall asleep and eventually Mickey buts in, “Why’d you move here of all places?”

L.A’s always seemed like a stupid place for him, pretentious, too sunny and with a mass of people who were happy for no reason other than Botox and Capri suns. Everything about Los Angeles appears dumb to Mickey, if he’d ever even humoured the idea of getting out of the South Side, L.A wouldn’t be the place he’d pick to fuck off to.

The question causes Ian to tense for the first time and he shifts his eyes from where he’s been chatting animatedly with Mickey to the ocean before them. Mickey watches, looking at the way Ian’s eyes follow the volleyball pirouetting through the air in a spectacular show of rubber acrobatics. “It’s sort of... Complicated,” he replies finally.

Of course, Mickey automatically becomes intensely curious but bites back on it and lets it go because obviously Ian’s uncomfortable. He figures he’ll find out anyway, whether it be ten years down the line or in twenty minutes.

Ian’s chatty and picks up where their discourse left off quickly, “I own a bookstore now. I used to just work there as an employee, North Side bound but then I ended up getting promoted to manager after the—” Apparently, Ian finds himself in a catch 22 and pauses, doing it over. “Yeah, so I was the manager of that store but the owner and I became really close and because it was a boutique store people who came in tended to fall in love, our contents quite esoteric. Anyway, we decided to franchise, we’ve got a store in Chicago, L.A and we’re thinking of opening up another in the Big Apple, but that’s just cheap talk for now.” 

Mickey’s not sure how much of that he actually understood and just gives a definitive, “Huh.”

“I’m sorry Mick—Uh, my Mickey, was a bit... Well, rude, earlier.” Ian says, the sun beginning to sink back into the earth, its colours bleeding into the skyline and drawing the end of the day closer, nightfall swimming into the sky.

Mickey snorts, “I don’t give a fuck.” He lies.

“It’s just... I don’t know, I think he’s got some stuff to like, reconcile with—his past, I mean. Maybe that’s what this is.”

Mickey doesn’t question it. He really doesn’t care about the issues of his future self, who apparently leads this grandiose life. If the biggest problems that Mickey has are that he feels shit about his childhood then he’s somewhat of a spoiled brat.

The silence begins to stretch on and on like bubblegum, growing thinner until it snaps back against itself.

“C’mon, pal. Let’s get home.”

Mickey doesn’t complain and ends up following Ian back to the car, their drive back to the house flecked with light conversation.

Mickey finds himself quite taken by Ian, even if he knows so little about this guy. It’s just something about the vibes, he guesses.

They get home and Mickey’s falling into a continuum of rutting the heel of his palm against his mouth to stave off a hippo’s yawn.

Mickey trails behind Ian, as they fumble with the keys, Ian giving him teasing poke in the side which has Mickey glaring at him before punching his shoulder a little too firmly to be playful. Ian laughs either way.

Once they’re inside, marble flooring clean beneath their feet, Ian tells him to head off into the living room. Mick’s there, sprawled out lazily along the sofa, his presence causes Mickey to flounder, especially when he tips his head back to meet Mickey’s eyes.

For someone who doesn’t believe in anything remotely spiritual, let alone any sort of deity reigning with cosmic omnipresent power, seeing himself in ten years is striking.

“I thought you’d be hotter,” says Mickey conceitedly.

Older Mick straightens up and sits back, affording Mickey this scoff, “Man, at least I hit the shower.”

It’s a joke that neither of them find light-hearted. Both are aware just why Mickey’s hygiene is less than peachy, they’ve rarely got water and if they do, it’s freezing cold in the winter. Terry uses all the hot of it and even if Mickey were to hop in and risk getting a frostbitten ass, it fucks with his rep. If you’re a squeaky clean dolled up thug, you’re going to be called out for being, in Mickey’s case, exactly what you are: a _fag_.

Ian comes back to the living room and leans down, sitting himself atop Mick’s legs, who doesn’t bitch about it.

“Pick up the little monster?”

“Yep.”

“Out?”

“Like a light.”

Mickey has no idea what their secret language means and he takes a seat against the arm of the chair, looking around the place. There’s a bookshelf on the left wall, filled to the brim with a selection of novels and indexes, beside it is a plasma.

Apropos of nothing, Mickey says, “There any food in here?”

Ian nods adamantly, “Oh god. I’m so sorry, I didn’t even offer you anything, did I? You must be absolutely starving. Right, I’ve got some green tea... There’s tofu, you want some of that?”

Mickey’s brows shoot up.

Mick mimes a fake puking sound.

Both of them are scorned for their lack of appetite for healthy living.

All three of them end up stuffing their faces with pizza, the two Mickey’s fine dining on pepperoni and meat lovers while Ian laments over his supreme portion.

“What the actual fuck is _that?_ ” Mickey asks aghast, around a mouthful of pizza. They’re in the middle of a Keeping Up With The Kardashian’s marathon and Kim’s drinking something that’s not a cocktail but all weird and green, completely fucking weird.

“It’s kale,” Ian explains easily.

Mickey can tell by his feigned detachment that he’s part of that sin to carbs, “How the fuck do people drink that shit? It looks like fuckin’ – it looks like spew.”

Mick coughs a laugh, almost spitting out his meat lover’s. “Fuckin’ right, kiddo.”

Mickey has half a mind to deck older-him for calling him a kid. He lets him off in favour of continuing in his torment of Ian, who’s all but writhing in his seat, “It’s good for you, okay?” He squawks.

“It legit looks like shit.”

Ian rolls his eyes, “Gets me pumped up. I chug it after my morning runs,” he laughs at the way Mick pulls a face. That’s how Mickey knows the older man is him; the mere thought of getting up in the _morning_ to _run_ is vile.

Mickey watches as Mick and Ian have this pseudo war of limbs, kicking each other, their aggression is so heated that eventually it melds into laboured breathing and eyes flickering down to mouths. Mickey’s belly warms, butterflies burning and skating against his ribs. They don’t go further, the ripple of sexual tension cut like a knife at the sound of Mickey’s involuntarily cough.

Eventually, Mick, with no direction of coyness stands up, dumping the crust of his pizza slice onto the box before rubbing his thighs. “Uh—I’ma hit the sack. Ian... Me... Later,” he offers them both this awkward wave before disappearing behind the column. Mickey watches him stop at the spare room first before he shuts the door and goes into the bedroom Mickey had woken up in.

Ian, shifts in his spot before getting up and cleaning up the space of the living room. “Do you think you’ll be alright for the night, to sleep on the sofa?” He asks voice quiet.

Mickey shrugs, “Yeah.”

“Alright, good. Great. I’ll—uh, get you a pillow and some sheets.”

Swallowing, Mickey grunts in riposte before kicking off the shoes he’d borrowed earlier and peeling off his t-shirt. He wonders if Ian will sneak a peek at his chest, Mickey leans back, trying to be apathetic in his pose but he thinks he comes up short when Ian returns and dumps the pillows and covers for him against the sofa.

“Let me know if you need anything else. I guess... I hope I’ll see you in the morning. You sleep well. Catch some z’s.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. When Ian treads down the corridor he tells himself it’s not disappointment he feels for not having been eyed the way he thought he might’ve been.

In all honestly, Mickey really does try to fall asleep and considering how tired he had been earlier it should be a relief to be alone in this house with the ability to sleep. It feels so strange for him to be lying down not all tensed within the filament of his bones—it’s strange not to be utterly terrified of falling asleep because of what goes bump in the night. He feels almost safe in this environment and that panics him.

What he thinks might be approaching an hour later, Mickey tiptoes down the hall. He stops at the spare room, hand on the doorknob but just as he’s about to investigate—he hears it.

The whispering is coming from the older men’s bedroom. “I know you don’t understand it, Mick. You think I do? That’s not the fucking point though.”

“Tell me what the point is then, fuckin’—just, tell me.” The height of older Mick’s voice had been aggressive but end of it sounds defeated.

Mickey challenges himself to draw in a breath.

“It’s _you_ , Mickey. That boy you’ve been treating like shit, like he’s a stranger, that’s you. I don’t get why you’re being like this all of a sudden.”

He hears a snort then, “Like it fucking matters. This apparition of whatever the fuck it’s—it doesn’t mean jack shit.”

It’s Ian’s voice that follows after some rustling, “No, I think it does matter. What does it say if your past _literally_ catches up to you and you treat your sixteen year old self like crap. I mean, Mick, I thought you were over this—you can’t still feel like that, right?”

There’s a quiet behind the door that Mickey can’t discern, he just shuffles in place. He’s about to turn away and go back to the living room when the voices pipe up again. “It’s not that, okay? It’s not about us or Terry, it’s.” Older Mick cuts himself short.

There’s some breathing, a bit heavier than before. Mickey’s ear pink.

“Tell me, baby.” Ian’s voice is a breath Mickey strains to hear. “ _Tell me_.”

“Me.”

“What about you?” Ian asks, more audible this time.

“I just— _Fuck_. I hate that, I don’t... I can’t explain it, I just hate who I used to be. I hate who I— Oh, fuck it.”

There’s more sounds, sheets fumbling and then a growl, “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare say that shit, you’re so good. You know it. You make both of us so happy, we love you. Stop it, whatever it is, whatever you’re feeling, let it go, Mickey.”

Mickey snorts, “Okay, way to make a Lifetime movie outta it. It’s not like that. I’m fine, completely fine. Just... This kid turned up and it’s fucked up, alright? I dunno.”

Ian sighs, “You need to stop feeling that shame, Mickey.”

There’s a raspy laugh, “You carry it with you everywhere forever.”

“ _Mickey_ ,” his partner says voice miserable with sympathy.

“Oh, cry me a river.”

Mickey thinks he’s heard enough and wants to leave, but he can’t stop. It’s like watching a car accident take place; all the while a hole building and expanding in his chest is becoming painful.

“I think,” that’s Ian’s voice, “You need to appreciate the opportunity you have here. I mean—hey, don’t laugh at me. Think of it like having your own genie in a bottle, you know?”

Mick coughs out a dark laugh, “Bippity bobbity fuck you.”

Mickey stands in place, listening to see if they’ll continue to chatter but it’s not long before there’s a wet sound of lips smacking against one another, following it come these dragged out breathes that gateway into heavy moans.

Eventually, Mickey scampers back down the hall and forces himself not to jerk off to the echo of their sounds.

**

“Yo,” There’s a light pressure against Mickey’s bicep. He doesn’t stir, breathing even, continuing to drool against the pillow Ian gave him, arms splayed out ridiculously. “Yo!” Says the voice again, this time applying more pressure to his arm.

Mickey jolts, wheezes in a breath of trepidation.

When he gains awareness, pin-pointing his gaze on the older version of himself Mickey nearly goes into cardiac arrest, “Holy—The _ffffu-_ ”

Mick holds up his hands in acquiescence, “Hey, hey! Easy, calm down, man. Sorry,” he says voice apologetic. Mickey grumbles and slowly sits up, digging his hands into his eyes, when he looks up again, Mick says, “Mornin’, Sunshine. You’re still here.”

“No shit, Faglock,” snorts Mickey.

Mick squints at him but let’s it slide with nothing more than, “Watch your mouth, pal.”

Older Mick moves to sit on the sofa where Mickey had been sleeping, and budges his legs up, “So, Ian’s out. Took the- Uh, yeah. Just you and me,” he says awkwardly, lazy glance landing on Mickey.

Mickey elevates a brow at his older self. He doesn’t really like him, if that’s possible, maybe that’s the point. Neither of them are fond of the other, but it’s a learning situation. It’s hardly as if South Side thug Mickey Milkovich sits around between dealing and getting fists to the face about whether he likes himself or not. He’s scum, after all, it wouldn’t even be _allowed_ to like who he is. There’s so much dirt on the skin he can’t scratch off.

“So, you wanna do something or sit around all day killing time?” Mick’s doing a good job of acting indifferent and Mickey almost doubts whether he’s playing it up or not, after all, this man in front of him, it’s not who he is yet, so many memories and a long series of events have shaped him, all of which haven’t yet occurred to sixteen year old Mickey.

“Dunno, don’t care.”  He’s still a bit venomous since last night.

It’s irrational to think about but he’s pouting over the fact that Ian’s obviously all hot for this guy who’s just a dick in Mickey’s eyes, he’s not jealous, just being pragmatic. There’s still some residue from the bitching Mick had done over his younger self yesterday that’s got him _reasonably_ sulking.  

Mick scoffs, “Tell you what, let’s restart that Kardashian’s marathon. I wanna find out whether Kourtney get’s on Scott’s ass for lying to her.”

The sun’s streaming in through the blinds and they sit side by side, munching on burnt popcorn while watching the reality TV show.

Mickey’s licking his fingers when he turns to the man who is him but aged and wrinkled, wearing more scars than Mickey’s ever seen. “Can you tell me any shit that’s gone down, since you’re me? Any stuff you wanna warn me about?”

He watches the older man turn to him, smug smirk pressed upon the gradient of his lips. “Like the stash of porn you’re gonna steal from the restricted section in Blockbuster’s?”

Mickey gapes at him, before shoving out an arm to sock him. They’re one and the same though and Mick catches him around the wrist, fingers gripping firm. He laughs raspy, “Nice try, gotta aim to get the opponent when they’re not expecting it though. You’d have done more damage to yourself than me if I’d let you take that hit, look at them knuckles.”

Mickey swallows, feels his eyes begin to fill with that disgusting burn at the memory of the way Terry had trekked around the house just because of his god damn knuckles.

Older Mick seems to understand and pets his fingers pitifully, “C’mon, I’ll get the disinfectant on that. I bet it hurt like a bitch,” He grins at Mickey playfully, like he knows – _ha_.

It’s weird, having someone take care of him. The even weirder thought that this is himself taking care of Mickey, isn’t lost on him.

The man is careful about the job, lightly dragging the tissue over his knuckles and just breathing quietly. Mickey hisses once, twice and Mick apologizes once, twice.

When it’s done, Mickey mumbles his thanks.

They’re drenched in the light that streams in from all ends of the house and Mickey turns to his older self and asks, “You gonna tell me how the fuck you landed a place like this?”

Mick laughs, “Long story.” The look on Mickey’s face prompts him to roll his eyes but he continues, “Ian’s job catered to the location to some extent. We took a trip down ‘ere one time with the rest of his Gallagher tribe—”

A splutter, “Ian’s a _Gallagher?_ Fuckin’ Frank Gallagher?”

Mick snorts, “I know. Although not biologically Frank’s kid, small blessings.” Then he continues, with Mickey still wide-eyed. “Anyway, we ended up down here because...” He seems reticent to let Mickey in on the story but, fluttering his lashes a few times and rubbing his trigger finger against his lip, he does so anyway. “Ian thought it’d be good for the... Kid, down here.”

Mickey has no idea what to say to that, just feels something cold course along his spine. If his older self notices, he doesn’t mention it. “Plus, Ian’s, you know, every demon wants their pound of flesh and shit. Ian’s better where there’s sunlight, something about photosynthesis and the sun warming him up; thinks he’s a _flower_. It’s weird, I didn’t believe it at first but... It’s true.”

Mickey thinks he must be missing something, or several something’s because that made absolutely no sense to him.

“Ian said when we first came down here, ‘it’s all the light, pours right into my soul’— god, how Christian youth group is _that?_ Whatever, man. Point is he’s not depressed, or like, he doesn’t go crash and have episodes as much with the L.A sun on his skin, apparently that’s an actual thing.”

Mick throws the apple he’d been fooling around with into the air and catches it, “Newton’s third law, was it? What goes up must come down or some bull.” Mick carves into the meat of the apple with his Swiss knife and feds himself bit by bit.

The teenager before him isn’t sure which part of what Mickey’s just said he should concentrate on. It makes sense now, why Ian had avoided the question as to why they’d moved to Los Angeles of all places now.

“You still gotta warn me about shit. There gonna be a Zombie Apocalypse? Is Mandy ever givin’ me back my god damn hand gun?”

Mick watches him smug as shit, continuing to slowly carve at his apple. “Zombie Apocalypse? Well man, as you can see, I survived like a motherfucker. Still not sure about Ian— that bright-eyed little minx could be preparing to feast on my brains at any given time.” Mickey’s mouth just twitches, “As for the hand gun front, I wouldn’t hold my breath. You’ll get like, fifty new ones though. Chill out.”

They’re quiet again; Mick begins to sink his teeth into the apple; loud crunching and juice dribbling down his chin unceremoniously.

“I thought dad would’a killed me by now,” he says, feeling exposed.

There’s a prolonged sigh beside him, and then Mick rubs his shoulder. “Never did play it safe, did you?”

Mickey looks up at him, sees he’s smiling.

“You’re not so bad, kid. I think we’re gonna be alright.”

**

Ian arrives home when the sun’s setting and brings this boy who’s absolutely tiny with him.

The man seems hesitant as he introduces the baby to Mickey, “Little Mickey,” Mickey stares daggers at Ian at that entitlement, he gets a rueful one back. “This is Yev... You’re uh... Well, anyway. Yevgeny say hi to Mick,” the little boy grins up, ice blue eyes the same as his.

“Hiiiiii to Mick!” He squeaks.

Mickey blinks at the little boy, then up at his older self who’s got his hip slanted against the aisle of the kitchen. “The motherfuck kind of a name is Yevgeny? You want this kid to straight up commit third degree cause you fucked him over with a weird ass name?”

“Заткнися,” Mickey spits at his younger self to be quiet.

Ian frowns, “Yev’s mom was Russian— details aren’t important but basically she was deported and now he stays with us.”

“ _Us!_ ” Yev parrots, clapping his hands together and screeching as Mick swoops the child into the air.

“Alright, let’s get your belly filled and then off, off to bed!” Says his older self and Mickey watches mesmerized by the scene out folding before him.

The baby is fed, eating sloppily and giggling as his swallows. Mickey watches the family who will one day be his family and suddenly it doesn’t feel so bad to be an outsider because he’s know some day he’ll own it— and in some form, that day’s already come.

It still makes his head spin, dazing and dizzying to think that he’s got a man and a kid while living in sunny L.A but somehow the pieces fit.

After they eat and Mickey’s in the middle of putting his son to sleep, Ian sits down with him on the sofa, placing his sheets down for him. “Do you think I’m going?” Asks Mickey, voice quiet. He realizes how safe he’s felt in the past twenty four hours, this is the life he wants, not living with fear instilled within his veins.

“Maybe,” says Ian, smiling at him furtively. “I’ve really liked having you around, though.”

Mickey hides his smile, dipping his chin down against his chest.

Ian laughs, pressing closer until their knees are touching. Mickey feels his throat swell and he chances a glance up at Ian and immediately feels himself grow hot watching the strange look in his eye, “Look... It’s fine if this isn’t what you want, but I know— And Mick told me, like, you’ve never kissed, so. I mean, if you’d like.”

Mickey licks his lips, tracking the trace against Ian’s every syllable. His pulse pelting against his throat. When he speaks it’s rough, “I— _Yeah_.” Kissing another boy is blasphemous, but he figures Ian isn’t some boy, it’s the man he ends up with and that mouth is pure sin.

“Yeah,” breathes Ian before evaporating his space by his own.

Ian presses his mouth to Mickey’s chastely, it’s just a touch. Then, Ian’s lips part and Mickey’s not sure what to do with himself, or where to put his hands, he’s fucked girls but never bothered with the pleasantries of kissing. The graze and scratch of stubble against his jaw combined with the deliciously intoxicating cologne fills up his senses, making it hard to think.

He feels Ian’s tongue licking into his lips and parts his own for Ian, embarrassed when he goes in full throttle and pushes his mouth hard against Ian’s and their teeth knock. Ian steadies a hand against his cheek, pushes it into his messy hair and guides him into the kiss. Like a diving bell released, it grows dirty, insistent. It makes Mickey moan involuntarily, their kiss electric and magnetic; everywhere _hot_. Ian pulls back and then leans in again, kisses him softly and tenderly this time.

“Alright?” He whispers, thumb stroking along Mickey’s cheek bone.

Mickey just swallows, thumbs at his lower lip, kiss bruised now. He stutters out, “I— Uh, yeah.”

Ian smirks, “Good.”

He gets up and touches Mickey’s pillow. Right before he’s about to disappear, Ian stills and turns to Mickey, “Hey, if you happen to stumble upon a floppy redhead give him a chance, yeah? Don’t kill him.”

Mickey’s still too confounded by their kiss to manage anything other than a nod.

 

**

 

Mickey wakes up, limbs sprawled out on his mattress, to Mandy pouncing against the side of his bed, shoving him hard and with a split skirt accompanied by a stream of black mascara-inked tears shedding along her cheeks.

“The fuck, Mandy?” He drawls hoarsely, voice hiding the panic which elicits from seeing his sister in such a state.

She shakes her head, making a unintelligible noises. All he gets from it is, “Ian Gallagher.”

He’s a dead man walking.


End file.
